


one more notch

by beardsley



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 13:23:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beardsley/pseuds/beardsley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://stevebucky-fest.dreamwidth.org/307.html?thread=33587#cmt33587">this prompt</a>: Bucky almost gets himself killed on a mission (again), Steve gets angry, rough sex ensues. That's it, that's the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one more notch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Paraxdisepink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paraxdisepink/gifts).



> Thanks to haipollai for a.) looking this over and b.) the whole wall sex idea. Title from Murder by Death.

There is a long gash running down from the centre of Bucky's spine to his hip, stitched up and covered with a dressing, that Steve doesn't know about. If he did he wouldn't pin Bucky against the wall like he does, knocking the air out of Bucky's lungs and crowding him there, all wide shoulders and dark navy uniform and the star on his chest lined up almost perfectly against the one Bucky carries like a badge of honour, like proof that he's worth something now (like proof that Steve has faith in him).

It's difficult to look Steve in the eye when Bucky knows, oh, he knows he's a mess. His left arm is creaky with overuse, the right one should probably be in a sling, and he is bruised black and blue. There are butterfly stitches over his brow, cheekbone, scratches across his face and Bucky feels like someone had dragged him over gravel. Which, hey, isn't that far from the truth. But Steve's gaze is just as commanding as his voice, and Bucky lifts his eyes.

'You can't keep doing this,' says Steve, voice gone flat and low in that way he has that is scarier than panic and anger and only slightly better than disappointment.

Bucky tips his chin up in pointless rebellion. 'Keep doing what? My job?'

 _The job you gave me_ goes unspoken, but they both know what Bucky is not saying and it hangs between them just as heavy as the words would.

Steve shakes his head. 'You can't keep taking risks like that,' he says, hands tightening around Bucky's wrists. It's still so measured, so careful: Steve knows precisely how much Bucky can take and how much force Bucky needs (because he needs, he needs for not everything to be up to him for once and he needs someone to be aware of his own limits better than Bucky is), he knows that the sensory receptors lining the length of Bucky's left arm are just as sensitive as real human skin and that pain is in the mind.

That doesn't mean he is gentle, but gentleness is the last thing Bucky has ever wanted.

'I'm not fragile,' he says now, arguing for the sake of it. Steve is right, of course; Steve is always right.

The tension in Steve's shoulders is visible in his posture, in how he holds himself so ramrod straight that Bucky feels a sympathetic ache in his back, though it might just be his own injuries. Steve's jaw is set. 'You're not invulnerable either.'

Bucky opens his mouth to protest, to argue like a kid being scolded; he never did get a chance to grow out of that, never did let go of some childish impulse to be an annoying little shit pulling Steve's pigtails. Before he can say anything, Steve slides his hand up Bucky's arm and presses two fingers into the bruise over Bucky's bicep — memento from getting slammed into a wall by a scumbag a lot less considerate than Steve. Pain shoots up Bucky's arm in both directions and he gasps, scowling up.

'You fucking bastard,' he manages. His voice is unsteady though it doesn't break, but the weakness audible in it makes Bucky furious.

'You're not invulnerable,' Steve says again, voice a low growl. Bucky's stomach flips. Steve gives back as good as he gets, glaring down at Bucky, his pupils a little too wide, too bright.

They're both angry, and Bucky would bet real money that they are angry at no one but themselves. His arm is half numb. Acting on an impulse he can't name (and he can name so few of the impulses propelling him forward when he's around Steve Rogers) Bucky tries to push Steve away and force him to back off, but all it gets him is that his fingers wrap around the holster straps over Steve's shoulders. The brown leather is stiff under his hands, even through his own gloves.

Impulse, Bucky is all impulse, dragging Steve closer until Steve has to throw up one hand for support, right next to Bucky's shoulder. (Right next to another knife wound, not as deep as the one on his back.)

'Buck —'

'No,' Bucky interrupts him. They are close enough now that if Bucky leaned forward, their noses would touch. Heat is radiating off Steve, even through the suit, his body burning hotter than anyone Bucky has known. 'You got something to prove, then fucking _prove_ it.' He yanks Steve closer still to put emphasis behind the words, and if there was ever a time when Steve's wide shoulders blocking out all distractions from Bucky's vision didn't feel good, good and right and safe, then Bucky doesn't remember it.

Every bone in his body, every sore and aching muscle, protests when Steve grabs his wrists again and turns him and pushes him against the wall, right arm twisted behind Bucky's back. It hurts, but it's the kind of hurt that makes Bucky hard in a point second flat. He lets out a pathetic noise that isn't protest, that is half pain and half encouragement.

No one gets to see Steve like this, with kindness and patience gone from his eyes, when all that is left is his carefully hidden short fuse and the temper he likes to pretend he doesn't have and his damn beautiful competitive streak and christ almighty, Bucky loves it.

He loves it when Steve presses close and snug against his back, fitting against the curve of his ass like he belongs there. They're separated by layers and layers, two uniforms, and still Bucky can feel Steve is hard. (It probably makes him fucked up somehow to think that Steve is perfect like this, but he doesn't care.) When he tries to talk Steve twists his arm a little further in warning, enough that it borders on uncomfortable, so Bucky shuts up.

'You're an idiot if you think I'm gonna let you kill yourself,' Steve says. It would be easier to focus if Bucky couldn't feel the ghost of his breath in his ear, couldn't feel every inch of Steve's dick through his uniform, but he gives concentration a perfunctory try anyway.

He manages something like a laugh, and pushes back against Steve's hold. 'What, you wanna fuck me into submission?'

'Is that what you want me to do?' Steve asks with a slow roll of his hips. Promise or tease, Bucky can't tell.

He flexes his right hand, feeling the pull of muscle in Steve's tight grip. They are so close they're breathing the same air and Bucky wishes he had powers, any powers that could magic away Steve's uniform. He wants to feel Steve, god, it's the only thing he wants.

By some miracle Bucky keeps his voice almost steady when he says, 'Always. _Sir_.'

Cold air hitting the back of his neck makes him moan out loud, cold air and loss and pins and needles when Steve steps away and lets go of his arm. Bucky slumps against the wall and breathes, slowly and carefully, as feeling returns to his hand. Maybe it was the wrong thing to say; maybe he pushed too far, and it's funny that for all that it's Steve manhandling him and not the other way around, it really is Bucky who keeps pushing and pushing and never knows when to stop.

Except just as he's getting up the courage to apologise, Steve's hands are on him again, and this time it is Steve who pushes: he pushes Bucky flat against the wall until both his shoulder blades dig into it painfully and not quite painfully enough, not as much as he needs. He strains against the hold, not particularly eager to get out of it, abused muscles tensing under Steve's hands and Bucky grins as wide and reckless as he knows how. It gets Steve where he lives; it always does, somewhere deep under the stars and stripes and under his skin.

Bucky readies himself, aching, for a kiss that doesn't come. He can almost taste Steve and he knows how the twist of his mouth feels against his neck, but instead of leaning in Steve only pushes Bucky to his knees.

'Fuck,' Bucky breathes, ' _fuck_ ,' mouth watering as he obediently drops down and ends up on eye level with the swell of Steve's dick under his uniform. There is not much space for manoeuvrability; when he tips his head back to look up at Steve, the back of his head knocks into the wall and Bucky winces, but the sight of Steve — flushed, jaw set and mouth curved in anger and maybe something like need, maybe something like fear — makes it worth it. Keeping up eye contact, Bucky reaches to undo Steve's uniform pants.

All he can hear is Steve breathing, heavy and almost pained, bent over Bucky to rest his head against one forearm where he's supporting himself against the wall. His other hand drifts down to the back of Bucky's neck, the touch dry and cold through his glove, but Bucky doesn't mind or care. He has his eyes on the prize and it takes only the slightest nudge for him to go where Steve wants him, which is down.

Bucky braces his hands on Steve's thighs, only half for support. What he really wants is to feel Steve breaking into pieces, with every shiver and gasp and bunch and release of muscle. There are tricks Bucky learned decades ago, some still at Camp Lehigh from soldiers who liked that sort of thing in exchange for a pack of cigarettes Bucky would then trade for coffee, and that for something else, and so on and so on. He knows how to take Steve apart just as well as Steve knows how to drive him absolutely fucking insane. They were always a good match, push and pull, give and take.

Always damn competitive, too, and Bucky feels himself go warm all over as Steve makes a loose fist, just enough to tug at Bucky's hair. It could be painful but he doesn't make it so, just keeps Bucky in place so he can move his hips and Bucky swallows past gag reflex and lets him, knowing he could protest and get up if he wanted to — but he doesn't want to. Nothing gets his blood hot the way Steve fucking his mouth does, even when it is so slow and measured and careful.

'Don't,' Steve growls when Bucky reaches down to his groin. It's hoarse but the command is clear, making Bucky moan. If they were anyone else it would be punishment, but they don't to that. They have been punished enough in their lives. But it's Steve who runs the show right now and Bucky follows his lead. He owes Steve that. (He owes Steve everything.) His palms are hot and sweaty and he aches, hard enough in his pants that it hurts, but he just puts his hands on Steve's waist, fingers curling over his hips.

It doesn't take long before Steve does what Bucky needs him to, pushing into his mouth with quick shallow thrusts, not enough to choke but enough that Bucky has to hold his breath and fuck, it's good, it's so good. He doesn't have to see Steve to know that it's the point where his eyes drift shut, where he bites his lower lip and tries to keep himself from making loud noises — and fails, choked moans crawling up his throat again and again.

The only warning that he's close is his fingers tightening in Bucky's hair, and for once he has so little control he pulls too hard; Bucky feels tears stinging at the corners of his eyes and his lungs are screaming at him to breathe, but he swallows around Steve thick and heavy in his mouth and the way Steve curls in on himself, the way he goes completely quiet when he comes hotly down Bucky's throat, is reward enough.

When it gets to be too much, Bucky pulls off and eases Steve through it with his hand, not caring when he gets come on the leather glove and his uniform sleeve. He has spares.

He has spares and he couldn't give less of a fuck about his uniform when Steve half-drops down, half-collapses next to him. With Steve's head on his shoulder, Bucky clears his throat and swallows a few times, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The glove is unsalvageable, anyway. He's a mess, but he still chases Steve's mouth — and Steve lets him. He kisses Bucky with a sigh, licking the taste of himself from Bucky's mouth with slow strokes of his tongue that remind Bucky how hard he is, and that he needs Steve on him or over him or inside him. Anything.

But when Steve moves to start undoing his pants, something makes Bucky shake his head.

'I'm good,' he says, which is a lie and it is a lie that comes out sounding as if Bucky just screamed himself raw. 'You good?'

'Mm.' Steve presses his palm flat against the star on Bucky's chest (Steve's star, though Bucky never told anyone that is how he thinks of it). 'I — Buck, I can't lose you again,' he says.

'You won't.'

'This uniform —' Bucky waits for Steve to gather his thoughts, though he has an idea of where it's going. 'It makes you a target.'

'It made you a target too when you wore it,' Bucky points out, and immediately wishes he didn't. It made Steve a target and it got Steve killed, shot in the street like an animal going to the slaughter with his hands tied behind his back, and the memory is still painful enough that Bucky's throat feels tight. The uniform he's wearing is a legacy of death and for as long as Bucky keeps it he will see behind his closed eyelids Steve's blood all over courthouse steps.

The floor is not very comfortable to sit on, but Bucky spreads his thighs so Steve can settle between them. With the anger absent, the tension gone out of the line of Steve's shoulders, Bucky stops fronting. They always get each other riled up, but Bucky thinks it's good. It's good to take the edge off every once in a while.

'I'm sorry,' he says, honest. 'I'm not — I don't go out looking for trouble, but you know they never trained me in tactics. That's what you were there for.'

'Maybe I should supervise your missions,' Steve mutters. 'Or just put you on the black ops roster.'

Bucky blinks. 'Maybe you should,' he says slowly as he works through the idea in his head. It doesn't sound bad. The opposite, actually. Working with Steve always made him most effective, even discounting the personal attachment. It made him feel like he mattered, or like he could do something that matters (like he could put his skills to good use, for a good cause, for something he believes in; for Steve).

There is a moment of silence before Steve pulls back to level Bucky with a flat look. 'You're serious.'

'Yeah.' The idea sounds better and better the more Bucky considers it: Steve's voice in his comm link when he's working alone, hanging around the black ops team with Sharon and some of the people Bucky met when it was them against Osborn. It could go wrong, but then it might not. 'Yeah,' Bucky says again, with more feeling. 'I'd like that. You need someone to watch your back, y'know, in your old age.'

Steve laughs. 'Watch it, soldier,' he warns, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk.

It's Bucky's cue to grin his most shit-eating grin, so he does. 'Make me.'

It's a challenge, and one that Bucky knows Steve will take on without a second thought.


End file.
